Skip to main content

Finding My Thing

So, slowly but surely, 40 is creeping up. I was 39 and a half two Fridays ago. This is not news, because my knees and shoulders have been slowly but surely telling me for quite some time now.

Hey, are those stairs?

*crunchcrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch*

Is that an unreasonably heavy door in the workplace?

*stabbypainstabbypain*

Congratulations! You're nearly 40!

Right, then.

So, a few of my friends have preceded me into fortyhood, or will, in a matter of weeks and months. The ones who seem to be smuggling the least amount of Rice Krispies in their joints seem to do some sort of physical Thing. A friendly acquaintance from college runs quite seriously. Another friend from college is into Tae Kwon Do. People I work with go to the gym and do the circuit, do pilates or play softball or somesuch.

I don't have a Thing.

I used to. It used to be martial arts, but I don't know about that anymore. It's not cheap, and because it's not cheap, it requires a commitment I don't know that I can give, between family, house, and theater.

Yeah, theater. While it doesn't burn a whole lot of calories, theater is probably the closest I have to having a Thing. Please see the title of the blog. Yes, I do still do theater, and it's an important part of my life. One I abandon at the peril of my sanity, and my husband's lack of felony manslaughter charges.

So, a Thing. I'm hyper-competitive  but self-conscious. I tried belly dancing with a really awesome teacher, but... the head space didn't show up, and I couldn't find it with a map, a compass, or both hands. And belly dancing is really all about the head space  especially the kind I was learning, Tribal. Yoga's too sedate. Team sports...< whine > they require me to talk to people < /whine >. And they ask for a kind of concrete day-and-time commitment that I'm leery of making, at least not until I'm sure I'm going to love it. And frankly, if softball hasn't done it for me in the past, it isn't going to start blowing my skirt up now.

So suggestions? Or a recommendation for a stock broker who can find me shares of the company that makes Aleve?

Comments

  1. Martial arts can be expensive. I get a break because the kids train. And the instructors recognize that I am almost 40 with a bum knee and a weak ankle, so they don't have ridiculous expectations.

    What do you want? How much activity? Alone or with others?

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Help!

So, besides the fact that this song's lyrics are hitting way too close to home right now, I'm looking for help setting up 1.) more of a web presence than I currently have, and b.) a more impressive web presence than I currently have. I've already put two library books on WordPress on hold. Anyone have tutorial or book suggestions?
Thanks!

The Power of Poop

So, I've technically missed a day on my mission to write a blog post every day for 40 days, but I got back up to write this, so it counts for something. I think I had a really good reason for missing out, though.

A new and exciting side effect of depression for me these days is insomnia and the general screwing-up of my diurnal cycle, i.e., I don't have one. That isn't helped by the fact that the last part of Herself's bedtime routine is mommy or daddy staying to cuddle for the first story on her If You Give A Mouse A Cookie CD. My problem is that I get so warm, content, and comfy that I fall asleep, sometimes for a few hours. This, as you can guess, helps my own sleeping situation not at all. So I promised The Therapist and The Shrink that I would work harder to stay for just the first story, and then leave and go to bed at a decent hour for me (ideally, 2200 - 2300).1

Our house has been in some emotional upheaval the past week or so. We got some scary news about fami…

Be Warned, I Swear in This One. A Lot.

This post is in response to an essay I read earlier today by an internet acquaintance and very popular author and blogger Ferrett Steinmetz, entitled, "How to Be a Good Depressive Citizen." In his essay, Ferrett makes a very good point about the unwritten yet strangely compulsory stoicism required of writers who grapple with depression. We hold ourselves to this impossible standard we would never require of anyone else. At least I hope to G-d we would never require of anyone else--that would be monstrous. But, for me, what he says boils down to this:

You do not discuss your depression until you can be an inspiration, or you are just fucking crazy. Nobody likes crazy.Hi. My name is Lyn, and I am fucking crazy. Really. Mentally ill, as they say. Liking me is optional, but, I'm told, entertaining as all hell. Case in point: I'm kind of done with being publicly stoic about how big a mess my life is at the moment, and feel like flinging my crazy around like paint. Feel fre…